Three Pounds of Matter
It’s easy to imagine what an alien might look like when you strip away the familiar meaty exteriors and motley skullcaps of our human forms. What’s left is three pounds of pink convoluted matter resting like butter at room temperature. And below fiber tracts descend like a silver eel with charged appendages branching out To the parts that merely respond to commands. We swoon at the mighty when all muscles do is contract. Because flesh and pigment are useful distractions So, our shields become our masks. We can hide behind the aesthetics and force of a physical form, But we are more than the weight of our atoms. We are firing synapses and action potential. A composite of specialized tissue able to contemplate its own existence. Thinking matter calling itself a mind, disguised by a fixed size, but bigger on the inside, and traveling through time and relative dimensions In space. An alien species encased in an anthropoid shell, manifesting itself through our actions, and reactions, and experienced sensations. What else is a mind if thoughts have no mass, thus, no force for gravity to attract? Like dark energy accelerating our expansion while mysterious forces bind us to our forms like glue. Composed of energy and empty space. in the belly of exploding stars Only to invent ways of understanding the cosmos. We must be the universe inventing itself.
This poem was originally published in Seisma Magazine.
Feature image via JSTOR